Glory: Sidestories
by Eiruiel
Summary: The tales and anecdotes that Suzu's book could never capture. A supplement to Glory. / Purgatory: Akihiko Namikaze takes a step into the dark side.
1. Suzu: Lantern Light

**Published: 11/4/2014**

**Edited: 12/23/2014**

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><p><strong>7: Lantern Light<strong>

When Obon comes around, the House has one of the biggest altars to be seen. It's to be expected, of course, because as a home for orphans everyone was guaranteed to have lost their parents. We put it in the sitting room, where piles of fruit and other offerings cover every free inch of the altar and its surrounding area. A little army of cucumber-horses and eggplant-cows sit lined up between the two lanterns, in front of the long, long rows of memorial tablets listing off the names of our many dead parents.

Perhaps it's because of that that half of the Namikaze compound gathers in front of the House on the first evening of Obon before heading out to the cemetery. Long before our caretakers have managed to distribute lanterns to each of the kids—neverminding the ones they had to carry for the babies, who were obviously incapable of doing it themselves—a crowd of people is already assembled and ready to go. I never really could decide whether their intent was to show us their solidarity by accompanying us or if they just wanted to watch the children toddle in ranks down to the clan burying grounds. Even I find our processions quite a sight, and I'm actually in them.

"Alright, everyone," Auntie Reiko calls over the bustle of the clan. Just about every Namikaze currently in the village has been crammed into this plot of land, this tiny space that holds the bones and ashes of our ancestors. Long, vertical headstones rise up into the air all around us, like topless tree trunks in a stone forest. "Do you remember where to go?"

The older kids drift off in the directions of their parents' graves, having come and gone through this routine before. Minato and Shiori head toward the west end of the cemetery, shoulder-to-shoulder, and of my agemates, Chiharu, Jinta, and Akira all run off together, racing to get to the corner where their progenitors' remains have been clustered together. The adults take the hands of the toddlers and guide them deeper into cement thicket, fingers pointing in their intended directions in the same way compass needles always spin north.

Instead of going off to locate my own parents, I stand at the entrance, watching them go. Their lanterns dip and bob in rhythm with their steps, swaying gently left and right, before fading and vanishing into the darkness. Soon the people around me disperse, and I am left standing alone, watching the undulating waves of a flickering ocean of light pulse up and down and back and forward and side to side and—

"What are your parents' names, little one?" An old man crouches down next to me. His skin sags on his face, clinging to his cheekbones like flimsy wet paper towels hanging from a counter's edge. He is covered in brown, splotchy age spots, and when I see the wrinkles radiating out from around his sunken blue eyes I cannot help but think they look like drooping petals on a slumping daisy. His lips are chapped and his knobby fingers could be twigs on a gnarled tree branch, but his hands do not shake no matter how frail and feeble they appear.

"Yasunari and Kazue," I say. I know exactly where they are buried—on the fourth plot in the sixth row—but I let him take my hand and we hobble together down the thin dirt path leading to them. We move at ninety-degree angles, weaving through the blocks in the grid that is our family's tiny necropolis, before finally arriving at a stout little memorial tablet.

As I stare at those two names engraved into the cold rock's face, Yasunari and Kazue, I wonder what I am supposed to feel today, here on the first night of Obon. Excitement? Most of my cousins certainly are, for Obon means food and games and dancing. Or maybe I should be pensive—Minato's gaze has been wandering in distant lands for most of the evening. Perhaps even sad. Auntie Reiko and Uncle Souhei were certainly looking wistful. They probably have more dead people than living to lead back home tonight, because even if they are retired now, it's hard to forget they're ninjas.

"Let's welcome your mother and father," my elderly escort murmurs. "They'll be glad to see their little daughter."

I look down at the flame flickering in my floral-printed lantern without saying a word.

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><p>With my hair pulled up into a bun on the right side of my head, adorned with pink and red flowers and dangling strings of beads, Uncle Souhei presses three hundred-ryo coins into my hands and tells me to have fun. Beside me, Jinta and Akira shout in delight and dash toward the door. Their wooden sandals clack loudly as they cross the porch and run down into the dusty streets.<p>

I don't follow them. Instead, I go and stand in front of the enormous butsudan and look at my parents' ihai with a critical eye, lips pursed. Supposedly they are here with me right now, visiting their only child, but the air around me feels empty, if a bit humid.

"You look very pretty today, imouto-chan," a young woman tells me, appearing at my left. Normally I would be alarmed to have such a stranger materialize in my house, but it is Obon, and the door is wide open. No one would bother to wander a compound not their own on a day like this.

"Thank you," I reply, looking down at the fat pink flowers stitched into my bright red sleeves. Typical cherry blossoms.

"Did you tell your mom and dad hello?" she inquires, leaning forward and bracing her hands on her knees. "You should tell them about how you've been."

"They're not here," I say before I can help myself; I frown, resisting the urge to let my chin jut out.

"Why, sweetie, of course they're here," she exclaims, surprised.

"I can't feel them."

"But that doesn't mean they aren't about! They only get a chance to see you once a year, you know. I don't think they would miss it."

"How do you know?" I ask, more sharply than I intend. But she is not deterred.

"Because they're your family," she replies softly. "And family will always come. It doesn't matter what you've done or even who you are—everyone has a family and everyone knows how precious that is. This is the one time of year when people can reunite with them, both dead and alive. Your parents, they're not any different."

That means nothing, I want to argue. There's no _proof_, I want to say. But then the air is still and the sound of drums picks up in the distance. I look through the window and see our kinsmen running past, wide grins on their faces.

"Let's go dance," my nameless older sister says with a smile.

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><p><strong>AN: Because between the chapters of Suzu's childhood, there were times when she looked at the foreign culture she'd landed in and felt that she didn't belong.**


	2. Akihiko: Purgatory

**Published: 8/10/2014**

**Edited: 1/12/2015**

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><p><strong>Akihiko: Purgatory<strong>

"Hey, senpai."

Kamoku is able to catch the scroll thrown at him and identify its origin—his subordinate Akito—without ever looking up from his reading. After he finishes the paragraph he is on he sets down his book and glances at the file in his hand.

"The new guy's report?" he asks quizzically, unrolling it and giving it a once over, briefly scanning through some general background before reading his current evaluation. "Seems like he's doing fine."

"They want you to run his last test," the cat-masked ANBU in the doorway shrugs. "I'm kind of inclined to agree. That sort of thing isn't my specialty, if you what I mean."

Kamoku smiles dryly. So he is needed his specialty, is he? That doesn't bode too well for the recruit, but Kamoku isn't going to argue. If they want him to take a crack a breaking the new guy, well, that is his job.

"I've been meaning to take a look at him in person," Kamoku says with a shrug, re-rolling the scroll as he stands and reaches for his mask. "As soon as I heard we had a kid coming in I was interested."

"I left him out on the training field," Akito replies. "He's waiting at the north end."

"Then I'll get on it." Kamoku nods; Akito leaves with a wave. His squad leader puts on his mask before zipping away in a shunshin, crossing ANBU Base 1 in a matter of seconds; when he comes to a stop outside on the training field, there is a little boy standing in front of him, dressed head to toe in black. Kamoku can tell his hair has recently been cut; each time the wind blows, he blinks as though expecting bangs to brush over his eyes.

"Namikaze Akihiko," Kamoku intones, tossing his scroll in the air, catching it, and sliding it into his belt pouch in two fluid motions. He eyes the boy critically. "Last test. Show me what you can do."

Kamoku technically doesn't need to see Namikaze jump through advanced kata and show off his athletic ability—the others have already evaluated his skill level—but he wants to observe the new recruit up close. He scrutinizes him closely, taking in every punch and kick and grunt and analyzing it, quietly fitting pieces of a puzzle together until he has put together a picture he is satisfied with.

"Enough." Kamoku waves a hand. Namikaze halts and returns to his place in front of the monkey-masked ANBU, standing attentively. Kamoku folds his arms and regards the boy coolly.

"What are you running from?" he asks. Namikaze blinks once, twice—

"I don't follow, sir," he says, smoothing the puzzlement off of his face. Kamoku snorts.

"Yeah, I bet. Give me two-hundred high kicks," he orders. Namikaze blinks again at the non-sequitur demand before smothering a look of irritation and turning to the post behind him. He sinks into a taijutsu stance and executes a flawless high kick, torso twisting easily, arms and legs moving in perfect unity. Kamoku saunters forward.

"When kids dream of being ninja," he begins, circling the boy, "they don't dream of ANBU. No one sees us enough to aspire to it."

Namikaze says nothing, focusing on his task.

"No one comes here unprompted," Kamoku murmurs, uncrossing his arms and leaning on another post, staring intently into Namikaze's blank face. "Your family holds you to no particular expectation and you have no obvious motivation for being here. No one has forced you here; you have come on your own without being requested. And if you have come on your own, without the need to impress anyone or fulfill someone's wishes, you are the one who needs be here. Conclusion: You are running."

Namikaze lets out a grunt; the post splinters with a crunch. Kamoku cocks his head to the side. Well. It seems the new guy has a temper.

"You have nothing to say?" Kamoku prods, intent on figuring out how far Namikaze can be pushed. "You're not going to deny it?"

Grunt, kick.

"So you are admitting to running away?"

Grunt, kick, crunch.

"We don't accept cowards, you know," Kamoku informs lightly, affecting aloofness and adjusting his gauntlets. "Guess we'll just have to send you back."

The fear in the boy's face is so quickly replaced with fury that Kamoku almost misses it—almost. The training post receives a strike so vicious it shatters, sending slivers of wood flying. Several of them lodge themselves in Namikaze's calf.

"Your poor form is confirmation enough," Kamoku shrugs as the blond lets out a hiss, shifting onto one foot—perfect balance, hm—as he pulls his leg up to examine the damage. "You might as well just tell me. Why are you here?"

"There's nothing for me in the General Forces," Namikaze bites out, planting both feet back onto the ground with a glare. "I can get better here and I can do it faster. That's reason enough."

Kamoku raises an eyebrow even though he knows the boy can't see it.

"Is that so?" he asks, contemplating briefly what angle to work him from before settling on the wound he knows is still raw and bleeding. "And Misuzu? Now that your teammate Yoshiya's gone she's your only friend."

Just as Kamoku predicts, the brief flash of emotion that shoots across Namikaze's face is one of pulsing, festering pain. Yoshiya? Kamoku considers it with a hum. No… Misuzu. She'll serve his purpose much better. Cousin, teammate, and friend… she is perfect. Not to mention she is still alive—there are so many more approaches to take when the exploit isn't dead.

Namikaze snarls, trying to let his fury mask his moment of vulnerability, but Kamoku has already latched onto his weakness. He is one of ANBU's best interrogators, after all. Only the T&I specialists cab beat him out when it comes to hitting where it hurts.

"She'll only hold me back," Namikaze declares boldly, but the waver in his voice precluded any pretense of credulity Kamoku might have had. The report read that they have recently come into conflict, but he knows for a fact no attachments are so easily severed. "She's nowhere near my skill level. I don't need her."

"But what if she needs you?" Kamoku asks blithely, bringing a hand up and pretending to examine his glove. "Recently field promoted, wasn't she? If you're right about her skill, she's in trouble."

He looks at Namikaze out of the corner of his eye; the boy frowns harshly but resolutely says nothing.

"Don't you think you should look after her?" the ANBU drawls, undeterred, as he shoved his hands in his pockets and looks at the kid down his nose. "She won't be able to look after herself. Field promoted chuunin are always the first kind of chuunin to die, you know."

There it is. Namikaze's will begins to warp—Kamoku seed in the way that his shoulders hunch and his gaze turns downward. Breaking point already? The monkey-masked ANBU is a bit disappointed. What a shame. He had had so much potential.

But then, slowly, Namikaze's head begins to rise. Intrigued, Kamoku watches as the swirling storm of confliction in the boy's eyes recedes. Cold, emotionless determination takes its place.

"That's her problem," he says, hands fisted but face admirably clear of any emotion.

Kamoku regards the boy carefully, feeling a vague sense of surprised delight trickle over himself. He gives a very, very small twitch of the lips.

"That's cold," he says, allowing a sharp smirk to settle on his face as he slides his mask off. Blue eyes meet brown; Namikaze's chin jutts stubbornly.

"That's life," he retorts, arms crossing. Kamoku laughs cynically. Is that bravado? That is interesting.

"Careful, little boy," he warns with a dark smile. "You think you can handle that kind of talk? Greater men than you have broken over those words, and no one here is going to hold your hand and ask you what's wrong when you're suffering alone in silence."

"Then that's my problem," Namikaze coolly replies, gaze frigid. Kamoku beats back a grin of satisfaction, opting instead to stare the boy down with every ounce of intimidation he can muster. A short silence falls over them, the younger glaring defiantly up at the older. Kamoku draws back a bit, mind turning as he forms his judgement.

"…You'll go far here, kid," he finally says, nodding once and smiling at him ever so faintly. "I look forward to working with you… Rengoku."


End file.
